We began the new day in meditation, memories of our training at Tuzanor never far from our minds. The early morning briefing concerned the move of Interstellar Alliance administration to Minbar and the implementation of security both for the ultimate transfer and for the visits Sheridan and Delenn expected to make while setting up the new offices. I scheduled a briefing for the rangers who would escort Delenn on her next trip, then caught up with Garibaldi on his way to Brown Sector.

"Su E' san? Are you all right with this?" I asked him.

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

"A' fa'an esan de'fala"

"I know what's coming, too," he answered, "but nothing is going to change it."

"Nie vitrosh," I said, although I was not sure if I were apologizing for questioning him or for what I suspected was about to happen.

"Nee'fa," Michael replied. "We'll be all right."

Despite our appointment, we were forced to wait for the leader of the telepath colony. We used the time to quiet ourselves, physically and mentally. When Byron appeared, the telepath wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Very clever, gentlemen. Mundanes often try to shield their thoughts from us, but thinking in Minbari is at least original. Useless, of course. Thoughts are formed as much in image as in language, so your ploy is rather pointless. But let's move on. You want my people to work with your military. It will not happen."

My admittedly limited experience with telepaths had not prepared me to have someone so boldly look into my mind uninvited. I struggled to control the defensiveness I felt, since I knew it would do us no good to argue with him. As Byron continued, he seemed to focus his attack on Michael.

"Do you have any idea what you're asking, Mr. Garibaldi?" His back was to Michael, but he looked over his shoulder. "No, you don't, do you?"

He turned and approached us. "You want my people to put themselves in harm's way, just by being aboard your ships in battle, and then to reach out to an unidentified mind, with no assurances about what they will find there. To invade that mind without permission to try to pull back information for you, and very possibly to be inside that mind when your people blow its owner out of existence."

He rocked back on his heels, took a step or two to the right, and then stopped. He gazed far into the distance or the past. "Do you know what it's like to be inside someone's mind as they die, Mr. Garibaldi?" he asked softly, and then his tone and tempo began to rise. "Do you know what it does to you? To your mind? To your soul?

"How many of my people will get trapped in those dying minds? How many of them will come back psychotic? Or comatose?"

His voice, just a micron overloud, echoed off the bulkhead in the approaching quiet. Garibaldi waited until all the reverberation had ceased and listened a moment to the silence as though he too could hear the other's thoughts.

"What can I offer to persuade you?" he asked at last.

The telepath laughed. "There is only one thing we want, Mr. Garibaldi, and do not flatter yourself to think that it is within your power to give." Without further speech or ceremony, Byron strode from the room.

I watched Michael for some reaction, some clue to what to do next, but he simply stood there. I saw no tension in his body, no affect in his face. I wondered if he saw, as I did, Lyta Alexander watching from the shadows, but I was reluctant to break the silence with any questions. After a few moments, he turned back toward me and laid a hand on my shoulder. I was surprised to see him smile.

"Begin again," he said, as we retraced our steps.

"Old fashioned detective work," Garibaldi said when we arrived back at his office. "Before there were telepaths, before there were scanners and jumpgates, back when my grandmother was walking a beat in Boston, cops figured things out. They caught the bad guys by simple detective work, so..." He brought a map up on the display screen. "...we begin again. And this time, we figure it out."

We plotted the locations of each of the raiders' attacks, noted approach vectors, dates, times. We listed the targets of the attacks, their size, their planetary affiliation, their cargo and destination. We looked for patterns and found none.

"OK," Michael said, "action must flow from patience and determination." We both smiled at the reference to our training. "So, we are determined. We will try to be patient. Try another tack. What's not there?"

I shook my head. "I swear we've put up everything we know."

Michael mirrored my motion. "That's not what I mean. We've been looking at what's there, and we're not coming up with anything. What's missing from this picture? Look at the negative space. Who or what isn't there?"

We looked again, searching for the conspicuous absence, but found too much missing to be helpful. Frustration was transmuting to despair when Michael turned back to the map. "Direction," he murmured.

Weariness was making me silly, and I started to giggle. "Yeah, yeah, direction, determination, patience, and strength. I'm running out of all of them."

"No, seriously, direction," he said. "That's what's missing. Our people gave chase when these pirates ran, didn't they?"

I checked our records and affirmed.

"That's not up here," he said, tapping the map. We went to work plotting the pursuits. It was neither clear nor consistent, but it was more than we had had.

Garibaldi plucked his jacket from the chair. "I think we have a call to make."

I suggested we talk with the President before we started a diplomatic incident, but Michael demurred. In his view, involving President Sheridan would make it a matter of importance. He was, he said, trading on old friendships. The Centauri ambassador was not in his quarters, but we found him where last I had seen him, in a Zocalo bar.

Mollari showed no surprise and seemed neither pleased nor displeased by our appearance. Garibaldi was direct.

"Londo, we've been analyzing our information on the recent raids, and we've noticed something very interesting." I watched Mollari for any agitation but there was no hint of anxiety. "When these guys run for cover, they run toward Centauri Prime."

"Ridiculous, Mr. Garibaldi. We are not criminals."

"Of course not, Londo," Michael agreed with a wave of his hand. "And I'm certain that if the government of the Centauri Republic were aware that some criminals were using their territory as a hiding place, they would come to the InterStellar Alliance immediately for help in weeding out these parasites. That's why we wanted you to know about this the moment we recognized it." He leaned back in his chair. "We won't have a chance to brief President Sheridan about this until tomorrow morning, but you can probably move through diplomatic channels a whole lot faster than that."

Londo took a sip of Brevari and screwed up his face as though the liquor had soured. "What is it you want, Mr. Garibaldi?"

"Just a little cooperation, maybe a little information. I'm sure your government is eager to share whatever it knows about these mystery ships with its partners in the Alliance. Start with who they are, and work up to what they want."

"Absurd! We know nothing of these pirates you speak of," Mollari huffed and turned in his chair. "This is outrageous!"

"Londo, we've known each other a long time," Michael said, leaning in to the Centauri's shoulder. His voice was soft but intense. "Now, I'm not stupid enough to ask you to do something because it's the right thing to do, or even as a personal favor. I'm simply telling you that cooperating with us in this is in your own best interest." He sat back again. "Unless, of course, Centauri Prime is giving these pirates sanctuary..."

Mollari sighed deeply and drained his drink.

I had to work hard to keep up with Michael as he strode through the station corridors. Admittedly, I was distracted, trying to decide whether it was more important to figure out what had just happened or what was going to happen next. The latter became clearer when we stopped in front of Delenn's door.

"Any minute now, President Sheridan should be approached by Ambassador Mollari on behalf of the Centauri Republic," Michael explained. "They will be discussing the recent discovery that the raiders may be hiding in Centauri space. With your permission, Entil'zha, we would like to assign teams of rangers to intercept the pirates when they try to return there."

Delenn showed no distress and only a hint of surprise. "You may assign WhiteStars as you deem necessary, Mr. Garibaldi," she said, "But has the Centauri government approved this?"

"Not yet, Entil'zha, but we believe they will. In fact, we expect the Centauri to request it."

Delenn was skeptical, but when Sheridan linked in and asked us to join his meeting with Ambassador Mollari, she eyed Garibaldi with a cautious amusement. Although everyone was cooperative enough during the conference, afterward President Sheridan demanded explanations and he wasn't about to accept vague answers. We explained the analysis that led us to confront Mollari, and frankly, Sheridan wasn't convinced. I'm not sure if we really were either, but it was the only lead we had, and the fact that Mollari caved in as easily as he did suggested we were right.

"So you're telling me," Sheridan restated, "that you think the Centauri may be complicit with these pirates." No one responded but the President didn't seem to care. "And in spite of that suspicion, you want to lay a snare for the raiders by allying with the Centauri. How do we know our Rangers are not walking into a trap? They could be killed!"

Garibaldi shook his head. "Far be it from me to tell you anything about diplomatic relations, Mr. President, but the Centauri have to know that if any harm comes to our people from them, they're admitting to their guilt, and the Alliance will respond to them as outlaws. Even if they are guilty, they can't tip their hand that way. They're too proud a people."

"Except..." I wasn't sure if I should inject myself into this conversation, but if the lives of my fellow rangers were at stake, I wasn't going to take chances. "I had a conversation with Ambassador Mollari yesterday, and he went on at some length about Emperor Cartagia's break with so many of the traditions of the Republic. I got an image of Cartagia as, well, unconventional at the least, and possibly unstable. If he's in control, what we believe we know about the Centauri may not be reliable anymore."

I saw concern in the faces around the table, a caution that changed to alarm as the station's claxons began to sound. Sheridan hit his link.

"Is this necessary?" The voice of Captain Elizabeth Lochley was testy.

"Captain, President Sheridan here. What seems to be the problem?"

"We've got incoming. And they're not friendly."

In one motion, Michael rose, bowed slightly to Sheridan and Delenn, and hit his own link. "Garibaldi to C&C."

"Corwin here. Go."

"Request permission to scramble with the station's fighters."

"Looks like we can use the help, Mr. Garibaldi. Permission granted."

"On my way."

I moved to follow him, hoping the pilot training we had received at Tuzanor was adequate to prepare me for a serious firefight, but Michael stopped me. "No! Your responsibility is here. Make sure that Sheridan and Delenn stay safe. Evacuate them if necessary. And don't take any hero crap from either of them."

I did my best to execute those orders, but in a battle of wills with President Sheridan or Entil'zha Delenn, I lose. And they had me double teamed. Although Delenn repeatedly expressed the desire to be useful, I was able to keep the Entil'zha where she was. I had Lochley's wrath to back up my insistence that the President should not go to C&C, so he finally agreed to follow the situation from his office over the com system.

As we watched the battle, I found myself searching the whizzing Starfuries for Garibaldi's insignia. It had been clear from the moment Michael's ship dropped that Lochley was not pleased to have him out there, clear enough that I figured Corwin would have some hell to pay for granting permission without consulting her. Audio monitor on C&C gave us some insight into what was happening outside our visual range and it gave us witness to the unexpected events on the bridge. Our first sign was the voice of Captain Lochley.

"Security! Get a detail to C&C on the double. How the hell did a civilian just walk in here?"

"I know you and I will not let you do this." The voice with an otherworldly calm was Lyta Alexander's.

We heard Zack Allan announce his presence to Lyta, but his words choked off before he could ask her to come along with him. We heard nothing more from her, and as we watched, the raiders fled and our fighters give chase.

I would have worried more about the fact that we had not had contact with Garibaldi for so long if events on station hadn't kept us so occupied. Sheridan demanded a debriefing with Lochley the minute the station was secured. The captain acquiesced with little grace.

The ships that attacked the station had withdrawn, although no one was willing to call it a retreat. No shift in the balance of battle suggested that we had won. Neither could any of us name the reason for the attack. And as good a look at the raiders as we had gotten, we still could not identify them.

"While we're at it, Mr. President," Lochley interjected, "I think it's time we had a talk about the telepath situation."

"Situation, Captain?" Sheridan arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we had a situation."

"Mr. President, that woman made her way into C&C in the middle of a battle situation. She used some sort of telepathic manipulation to overpower and disable our security people. God knows what she could have done if her intentions had been malicious. And given the current, rising tensions, we have cause to think that she or other members of the telepath colony might well have such malice."

"Have you spoken with Ms. Alexander?" Sheridan asked petulantly.

"She ran out of C&C and disappeared. Security has been looking for her ever since."

Lochley began to pace, hands clasped behind her back. "Mr. President," she said finally, facing Sheridan from across the room, "I respect the fact that you've given these telepaths safe quarter, but I am responsible for the safety of this station and all of its inhabitants, and I perceive a threat here."

"Now just a minute, Captain..." Sheridan stepped around the table but Lochley didn't flinch.

"I will not act against you, Mr. President, but I feel obligated to have personnel on board who can handle these people if they should choose to harm us."

Sheridan gasped audibly. "Captain, if you bring PsiCorps in here, we will have a situation. You're throwing sparks at a powder keg."

"I'm sorry you don't agree, Mr. President, but it was clear today that traditional security measures are ineffective against these people. I have to protect this station, and if I need the services of the PsiCorps to do that, then I will call them in." She moved to the door without waiting for further argument from anyone. "Good day, Mr. President."

A sinking sense of ineptitude swept over me as I realized that Sheridan was staring at me, expectant, as though somehow I held the answer to this whole mess. I went through the motions of inhaling, although my lungs felt just as empty when I was done. "Would you like me to find Ms. Alexander, Mr. President?" I asked, frantically trying to imagine what could make things better.

Sheridan gave me a sharp nod. "Yes, if you can." He walked back to his desk, tapping his fingers along the surface as he circled it. "I'd also like you to locate Garibaldi," he said pensively, "but knowing Michael, that won't be easy." He sighed and looked at me. "But if you find him before I do, warn him that the Captain may be bringing PsiCorps on board. And duck when you tell him. He's not going to like that news."

I set off for Brown Sector, wondering why I thought I could find Lyta Alexander when Zack Allan's security forces had failed. On some level I hoped, even expected, that she'd find me. The few telepaths I could find were frostily uninformative. Remembering what Michael had said about their habits, I wondered if I was being scanned. On cue, my link chirped, sending a chill through me. The foreboding was quickly displaced by relief, however, when Michael's voice came through.

"Where are you?" he asked. "I've got to get out of here before the Doc catches up with me." I explained my Brown Sector quest and offered to meet him in his office. "No! That's the first place Stephen will look. Stay where you are. I'm coming to you."

He was still in his flight suit when he found me. "Why are you hiding from the Doctor? Why is he looking for you?" He waved off my questions, but I could guess from the look of him. I wondered how much of his Starfury had made it home. "How did it go out there?"

His face hardened in a way I hadn't often seen before, a tension that told me there was more on his heart than he was willing to talk about. Then he straightened his shoulders. "We lost people," he said, and swallowed hard. "That's never good." I hung my head, ashamed that loss of life had never entered my thinking about the battle.

"You find her?" he asked, looking at me just long enough to see my head shake. "You do know you're on a wild goose chase as long as she doesn't want to be found?" He paused and nodded just a pulse. "Or he doesn't want her to be found." Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place as I watched. "She'll come to us, and Byron will be with her," he said as he led the way back to Sheridan's office. I decided it was ducking time.

Sheridan was right. Michael didn't like the news of Lochley's decision, and there is a dented trash can in Brown Sector to prove it, but I watched him work at controlling his breathing and his emotion as we walked. This was the second time I'd given him unpleasant news. I didn't like that part of my job.

The chill I had felt in Brown Sector revisited me when Lyta and Byron came around the bend in the corridor. Straightening, I greeted them and ushered them into President Sheridan's office. No one seemed surprised. Perhaps their diplomatic training let them hide it or perhaps Sheridan and Delenn had expected the telepath leaders to appear.

Sheridan began a tactful speech, addressed to Lyta, gently suggesting that her actions earlier had not been wisely chosen. Byron interrupted almost immediately.

"Our understanding, Mr. President, was that my people were safe aboard Babylon 5."

As Sheridan began to explain that no one meant Ms. Alexander any harm, I watched Michael. Gradually, casually, he moved around the room, head bowed, eyes on the floor, until he stood behind President Sheridan's right shoulder.

Byron interrupted again. "Your words are little assurance, Mr. President." He invested the title with contempt. "As we speak, Alfred Bester is boarding the station."

Michael raised his head at that, but his gaze went not to Byron but to Lyta. He squared his body to face her, then leaned back against the credenza behind him. The change in posture brought his eyes level with Lyta's.

Sheridan tried to explain Lochley's decision. Given that he didn't agree with her, he did a fair job of it. Why did it have to be Bester? Couldn't PsiCorps have sent someone who didn't have so much history with everyone here?

I was surprised that Michael hadn't shown more of a reaction to the news of Bester's arrival. He hadn't moved since last I looked at him, just stared at Lyta, inviting her, daring her to speak to him. Or to scan him? I followed his gaze back to Lyta. She made no effort to avert her eyes, but showed no reaction either. Lyta affected a little squint when she was scanning someone, I knew, but I saw no sign of it now.

The President and the telepath were laboring on about Bester's presence on the station, a rather futile debate since it was Lochley's doing. Eventually, Sheridan was able to shift the topic.

"I understand you refused our request for your help in identifying the raiders. Is there any way I can persuade you to reconsider?"

Lyta flinched as though something had touched her. Byron shook his head angrily. "Not so long as this man holds power." His gesture indicated Garibaldi.

"Byron!" Lyta broke from Michael's glance.

"No, Lyta, I will not be dissuaded. The truth needs to be spoken. The man despises telepaths, all of us, without exception. He has no appreciation for our talents, no respect for our work, no compassion for our situation. I cannot trust him and I will not work with him."

Delenn and I deferred to Sheridan when all three of us sprang to Garibaldi's defense. Oddly, Michael made no move to defend himself, but continued to study Lyta. Her body was turned toward Byron, but as he and Sheridan argued back and forth about Garibaldi's trustworthiness, her gaze returned to Michael.

Byron spun toward the door, nearly stumbling over me. "Come along, Lyta. We're wasting our time here."

He was through the door before she began to turn to follow him. Just as she reached the threshold, Michael spoke her name softly. She looked back at him.

"Who are they?" he asked.

Her eyes shimmered, and I couldn't be sure if from telepathy or tears. Maybe it was both. "Dark Soldiers," she said. The room was suddenly cold. "They want to go home."